Drunken Abandon: Chaos
by IceEckos12
Summary: England tries to get America drunk, and actually succeeds! Unfortunately, the poor guy gets a little more than he bargained for...REBOOT.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

England considered himself to be smarter than the average human being. He was, after all, a nation, and you don't live for over five hundred years without being reasonably more intelligent than everyone else (though there were some...exceptions). However, sometimes he did have his moments when he would look back on them and say, _what in God's name I was thinking. _

~DA~

_London pub, 12:00 at night_

"Come on, America," England goaded, waving his own glass of scotch in the air theatrically in the smoky air of the bar. "Give it a try. You're not going to tell me that you're a lightweight, are you?"

America shook his head in disgust and pushed away the beverage, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Ugh, gross. That stuff is way too strong. Hey bartender, get me a coke, would you?" Then he grinned widely at the Brit, pushing the glass across the wooden countertop. "Sorry England, I don't drink at all, but I'll pay for that for you. Besides, someone needs to be the responsible driver, don't they?"

A little disappointed with the failure, he actually considered giving up as he leaned back in his barstool, sulkily taking a sip of his beverage. Not too long ago, England realized that he'd never actually seen America good and truly drunk off his ass—and while this hadn't been too surprising while they were still seething at each other from the revolutionary war, it was a little odd nowadays. Especially considering how many times they went drinking together.

It had been his goal to see America absolutely plastered. After all, the American got him plastered often enough—it couldn't be that hard.

That had been a month ago. This endeavor was turning out to be a bit more difficult than he'd originally thought it was going to be.

As the dark, bubbling liquid slid across the countertop towards America, he simultaneously got up. "Hey, do me a favor and watch this for me, would you? I've got to go empty the tank." He cheerfully patted his stomach and walked away towards the bathrooms.

England stared after him for a second, wondering at his luck, before glancing at the glass, and then at the bartender.

"I won't drink anything tonight if you put rum in that man's drink." He pointed at the glass. "I'll even buy him a refill every time it empties. Just swear to me you won't tell him."

The man's eyes glowed dimly with money signs, and he took back the glass and poured out the coke, before replacing it with a rum and coke mixture. He didn't say a word, simply gave the Englishman a conspiratorial wink just as America returned a minute later.

"Hey guys!" He said cheerfully, sliding onto his stool. "Did I miss anything?"

England kept his voice carefully controlled and smiled, not feeling any guilt about what he was just about to do. "Oh no, everything's fine."

The young blond smiled widely in return before tipping back a gulp of his drink—but then he paused and swallowed slowly, leaning back to take a look at the innocent brown 'coke' in confusion. The Brit gulped—if America figured it out now, his plan was doomed and he probably would never get another chance.

"…this tastes funny." He muttered, swilling the coke around a little.

The bartender scowled and responded before England could think of anything. "Are you insulting my coke, boy? If your puny American ass doesn't like it, than you can get out."

Inwardly he sighed in relief as the American sputtered quietly, holding his hands up in a placating manner. "No, it's fine, it's fine! It must be something about all this rain!" And with that, he tipped back the whole glass, before grinning weakly. "More please?" He asked, no doubt trying to make the tall, balding man happy.

"Much better." They shared a grin; maybe this would be easier than England had originally thought.

_2 hours later_

Rum and coke had eventually switched to vodka and coke, and then eventually to just straight up scotch. For some reason the drunken American was fond of the stronger drinks—and boy, he could put them away like nobody's business.

It had taken ten glasses of the rum and coke for the young nation to get even slightly tipsy—England had been staring at him as though he were a new species the entire time. He _knew _that the American ate a lot, yes, but was it enough to dilute that much alcohol? It seemed highly impossible.

And then England had decided to speed up the process a little, and had started pouring vodka into America's system. Not exactly the best idea, but at that point America was falling fast and falling hard into complete drunkenness. With every glass he consumed his words seemed to slur a little more, and the glass began to totter unsteadily in his shaking hand—he seemed even more oblivious to the world than usual.

To top it all off, England had eventually decided that it was safe enough to give him just plain old scotch in a shot glass. It was only after that America came even _close _to the level of complete abandon that he wanted.

Jesus Christ, what was wrong with his former colony?

"He's not human." The bartender commented idly as England shrugged one of America's arms over his shoulders, beginning to wipe down the glasses as the pub closed for the night. "Take care of him."

He grimaced slightly and laid the bill on the table, wincing at the sum that had disappeared from his pocket. "I've never seen him go drinking before, and I…" The Brit stopped just in time to prevent the 'I raised him' from escaping from his mouth. "…he and I were brothers."

The man counted the money; then, seemingly satisfied, he stowed it into his pocket. "Big shock, eh? Looked like he needed it, though. Come back any time. Safe driving."

Struggling under the weight of the inebriated, muttering American, England staggered outside, suddenly wishing that he had his former colony's super strength. After a short trip to the parking lot, the Brit draped America over the hood of his car and heaved a gasp, bending over to try and regain his breath. His head shot up as he did so—and then he lashed out and kicked America in the shin. "Stupid American." He muttered. "Why are you so fat?"

The American didn't stop muttering quietly to himself; instead he just slowly slid down the mint green paint, squeaking loudly as his skin stuck. After what seemed like forever, he fell onto the pavement, landing with a loud thud, not doing anything to prevent his drop.

England stopped and stared at him for a second, before he cursed again and kicked his shin. Still fuming, he opened the backseat and grabbed America's arms, trying to figure out how he was supposed to put the idiot in there. Out loud he muttered, "Maybe I didn't quite think this through."

"Papa?"

England froze and looked down at the limp body in his hands—who was now staring up at him with glazed blue eyes. The voice that had escaped him didn't sound like America _at all—_it was cold and high pitched, and a touch…girlish. The blond opened his mouth again to speak…before letting out a soft moan instead and shutting his eyes, his chin dropping to his chest. A second later there was a loud snore.

Okay, that was weird. England shook himself and tried to squash the sudden feeling of uneasiness in his chest, before shoving his former colony unceremoniously into the back of the car, wincing a little whenever a body part hit something. "Sorry." He said, before slamming the door and walking over to the driver's side and sliding into the front seat. The keys slid into the ignition, and the engine rumbled and turned on. Letting out a sigh of contentment and petting the wheel, England turned around to check behind them.

"Where are we going?"

England jumped and nearly shrieked at the face that had suddenly shoved itself into his view—wide blue eyes and an innocent expression watching him curiously. It was surprisingly creepy—especially paired with the very childlike voice that had replaced the girlish, high-pitched tone from before. "O-Oh, America. I just—"

"Hehe, that's not my name." The blond flopped into the back seat, grinning widely. "That's daddy's name."

Confused, England stared at his former colony, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. "Then, uh…what's your name?"

A childish giggle…and then suddenly his blue eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell into the seat, snoring loudly.

Now more freaked out than ever and just wanting to get home, England quickly drove out of the parking lot and towards his house, keeping one eye on the unconscious American in his backseat, praying to God that he wouldn't wake up again.

They pulled into his driveway just as America's eyes flickered open again. A little wary, England turned off the engine and pulled out the keys; the indoor lights turned on, illuminating the red-flushed cheeks and sweaty forehead. To the Brit's surprise, America just rolled over and groaned. "Oooh…my head hurts…"

Suddenly realizing that America was now somewhat back to normal, England jumped out of the front seat and opened the back door, reaching forwards to help the blond onto the pavement. "I think you had a little too much to drink, dear."

As they straightened (well, England did; America was too tall for him to stand up fully while being supported by the smaller nation), America's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I don't…"

He patted the younger nation's back sympathetically, only now starting to feel guilty about the whole thing. He didn't regret it for a second, but he wished that the poor boy wasn't quite so disoriented. Apparently when he got drunk, he crashed hard. "Don't worry about it. Now let's get you inside and cleaned up, yeah?" America definitely wasn't a fun drunk.

"Okay Iggy." The blond let out a soft sigh and buried his nose in England's hair, before letting out a loud snore and slumping against his small frame.

"Dammit!" England cursed as he nearly fell over again due to the weight. "Didn't even stay around long enough to help me, did you, you wanker?"

In response, there was a loud snore.

It took much swearing and cursing, and several heart-stopping moments where America nearly broke his neck falling off of the irate Englishman, but eventually they got inside. With an exhausted sigh England dropped his cargo onto the couch, stretching out his back and glancing at the time…before groaning. "Ugh. Two o'clock. I didn't expect that to take so long."

When he was alone he tended to talk to himself—it was just a habit he'd picked up over the years to keep himself from going insane.

The dirty-blond glanced at the sleeping American on his couch, scratching his stomach contemplatively. "I think I'll just leave you on the couch." He decided finally, nodding to himself. "Normally I'd put you in the guest bedroom, but it's late, and it's your own fault for being such a deadweight."

America snuffled and rolled over, scratching his stomach in his sleep.

England's smile softened as he watched; sometimes America _could _be very cute. But only sometimes. "I'll be right back…I'm thirsty. Don't go anywhere—you still need a blanket." Then he left the living room and padded into the kitchen, going right for the glasses cabinet, keeping up a soothing dialogue as he went.

"It's been a long night…especially with the meeting tomorrow. Maybe going drinking tonight wasn't exactly the best idea—you'll be completely wiped out." He sighed and took a sip from his glass, enjoying the cool rush down his throat, before striding back into the living room. "I can't say I'm too sorry…" He trailed off, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates.

Okay.

Okay, that was bad.

America had just vanished.

Creeping unsurely into the living room, England noiselessly made his way to the empty couch, wondering where his inebriated friend went. "America?"

There was no response.

"_Oh my God I lost America." _England muttered.

He did a 360 of the room, searching for anything that was out of place. Nothing as far as he could see—it was just as shadowed, just the same as it was before…except for that open door where the guest bedroom was.

With a sigh of relief, England hurried over—America must've been uncomfortable and decided to move. That was a good, solid, logical explanation. "America, if you wanted to move you should have told…me…" He stopped just inside the door frame, blinking several times to make sure that he wasn't just hallucinating.

There was America lying on the bed, yes—the covers were pulled up to his chin, and he looked quite comfortable. Nothing out of sorts. However sitting next to him, watching him quietly, was what appeared to be a young girl; she had silvery blond hair and wore a light tan trench coat and a black skirt, paired with a black shirt. Around her neck was a long, ice blue scarf, and in one hand was a thick spigot.

She looked exactly like a female version of Russia.

At the sound of England's voice she whipped around, blinking at him with calculating violet orbs. One second she was sitting there—and the next she was standing next to England, towering above him, despite the fact that she looked as though she was barely twelve. She smiled creepily down at him, almost seeming to radiate an aura of intimidation.

England froze, brain stuttering to a halt.

"I'm sorry, can I help…" Her eyes opened slightly, and then she blinked in surprise, leaning back slightly, eyes flickering up and down his body. After a second her eyebrows furrowed, and she said something that made England's jaw drop.

"…papa?"

**Hey-o, me again. Long time no see, guys! It's been a while, and I fer-sure missed you all. **

**The vote was really, really super close, but in the end the reboot won, especially since my best friend had me write it for her birthday. I hope the ones who wanted a sequel aren't too disappointed. :/**

**But as you can see, this Drunken Abandon is going to be REALLY FREAKING DIFFERENT from the first Drunken Abandon. Not that I don't love it, but it was frankly not very good whatsoever. It was the first story I'd ever really finished on this website, so I'll always remember it, but just _no. _This DA is going to have a completely different plot-line, and is going to make better sense. It will still be a mostly cracky humor fic (which is another thing I didn't like-DA the original got way too serious at the end), but there will also be _some _serious parts. I hope it'll be a better fic overall. **

**That being said, I want to thank everyone-old readers, new readers, my friends in the real world-who inspired me one way or another to rewrite this fic. It's going to be super fun. :)**

**One last thing you all should know: I have not written this entire thing beforehand, like I'm doing for another story of mine that is still in the works. This means that updates will come WHEN THEY CAN and will be sporadic and far between. That's how this is going to work. If I can keep the amount of words in each chapter down, though, updates will probably come quickly. **

**IceEckos12**

**P.S. Just to let you all know, my super-massive project is almost completed, and my betas are currently editing the first part of the story. It should be up within a couple months. I'll let you guys know, if you want to read it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: First chapter.**

_England froze, brain stuttering to a halt. _

"_I'm sorry, can I help…" Her eyes opened slightly, and then she blinked in surprise, leaning back slightly, eyes flickering up and down his body. After a second her eyebrows furrowed, and she said something that made England's heart freeze in his chest. _

"…_papa?"_

~DA~

There were a lot of things England considered doing in that split second of complete, stunned silence, though none of those options were very…dignified. First he idly considered the fact that this was an intruder in his house, and he could simply beat her up and kick her out. Second he thought that _maybe _she was some sort of hallucination, and _perhaps _he should just turn around and go to bed. There was a moment when he briefly entertained the idea of simply thinking things through another day and passing out. Screaming hysterically followed immediately after that notion.

But.

He did _not _hit girls, he was _pretty _certain he wasn't a complete and utter lunatic, and he definitely _wasn't _going to pass out because that would wound his pride. Screaming neatly fit into the same category.

_Take a deep breath, clear your head, and look at the situation logically, _a soothing, rather rational voice told him, and England felt that it would be rather prudent to listen.

_Deep breath, in, out. _He shut his eyes for a second, before opening them and meeting bright, confused purple. For a second he simply stared, before mentally hitting himself over the head. _Of course she's not going to go away just because you think she's not real. Well, I guess I can cross off hallucination. _

_There is a teenaged girl in my guest bedroom, who was not there before and I have never _seen _her in my life. I think she may or may not have something to do with America. And she called me papa. _

…

…

…

And that was it, wasn't it. That was the entire situation, staring him in the face. Maybe there really _wasn't _a logical solution. It was in that moment that England decided that thinking about it wouldn't really do any good, but falling back on his natural instincts would _maybe _make things a little better. Or make them seem better.

"Would you…" The girl jumped slightly, staring at him in surprise, though her expression, he realized, had become guarded in the last few minutes. "Would you like something to drink?"

She paused, did something that was _probably _a mental double-take, furrowed her eyebrows at him, blinked once or twice—before nodding very slowly, as though the situation was just as weird for her as it was for him. And for all he knew, it was.

"Are you alright?" She asked uncertainly, and England realized uncomfortably that her voice had a very slight Russian accent. "You kind of…spaced out for a second there."

He waved her off, mentally wincing at his earlier reaction—so his slight breakdown hadn't gone completely unnoticed. Honestly, he was extremely embarrassed about his lack of emotional control. His panic was now locked in a tiny cage in the back of his mind, to be dealt with at a much later date. "I'm fine now. Nothing to worry about. I have tea, and coffee, and some water…"

For now though, he could definitely use a fortifying drink. And the girl looked a little shaken too, so she could probably use one as well.

She looked relieved beyond words, the spigot in one hand drooping slightly as her tense grip loosened. "Coffee, if it's all the same to you."

England nodded and spun on his heel, determined to get to the kitchen and perform the given task, because at the moment that was all he was really able to think about. It sounded incredibly soothing, for some reason.

He slowed down as he entered the kitchen, his body beginning to come out of autopilot as his thoughts began to reorganize themselves from the pathetic jumble they'd been just seconds before. He paused for just a second in the doorway, simply sucking in air and _breathing, _before straightening up and, in a more subdued pace, making the drinks.

_Okay, _He thought, watching the tea kettle with blank eyes. _Okay, so we know the situation. _He had already deduced that. Actually, compared to some other things that had happened in his very long, very hectic lifetime, this situation was practically normal. Well, except for the whole 'papa' bit. That was a little…yeah. Okay.

_I mean, I don't _think _I've fathered any illegitimate children in the last twenty years, _He considered this vein of thought while he poured the boiling water into two mugs, before dismissing the idea entirely. He'd only ever had sexual relations with men, and last time he checked, men couldn't get pregnant (except on that awful website that wrote fan stories—what was it?).

So, maybe America had a child.

…

…

…

_Dear God I hope not. _

It wouldn't explain why she had called him papa, or why America had hidden the girl for so long—and besides, the younger nation was about as innocent as they came. Not too long ago when he and America had gone out to lunch together, a woman had come over and had _definitely _been pulling the moves on the unsuspecting American. She had been trying awfully hard too, poor woman—but the double entendre had been _completely _lost.

(Oh, hadn't that been an awkward conversation—America had looked _so_ confused as to why the woman had stormed off in an disgusted huff.)

So…_not _America's kid then.

England finished making the drinks and rested his hands on the edge of the countertop, his face and thoughts contemplative. Now that he thought about it, the window hadn't been open in the guest room—no, he kept an anti-burglar alarm on all the windows, and they were high quality, too. He would have _known _if she had climbed through the windows. Same with the front door.

_So where the hell did she come from? _

He breathed deeply, one more time for good luck, and then picked up the two mugs and strode out into the living room. It was time to get this mess sorted out once and for all, and by God if he had to _interrogate _the child then _so be it_.

He froze in the doorway, jaw loosening slightly.

"So listen, Sarah," A tall, gangly, black-haired boy was sprawled across the couch, the beret on his head tilted off to one side. He had oddly familiar catlike green eyes, and a splash of freckles was painted haphazardly across his face. He was wearing dark blue skinny jeans, a striped red and white shirt, no shoes, and a black leather jacket. His voice, when he spoke, had a thick city drawl. "I was thinking, since we only have a few days or so—"

The girl from earlier was listening to him with a look of dry amusement on her pale face, and at that moment she chose to interrupt him. "First of all, do not call me Sarah." Her face twitched. "Second of all, I do not want anyone to get pulled into another one of your crazy schemes."

The boy wrinkled his nose and waved one hand dismissively; England was struck by how familiar the gesture looked. A lot of things were oddly familiar about this bizarre pair. "Chicago subway was _so _not my fault."

The girl delicately lifted an eyebrow. "Ontario?"

"_That," _He responded indignantly, "Was one hundred percent someone else's fault."

England suddenly realized that he had been staring in an unseemly manner, and that he _really_ ought to pick his jaw up from the floor and ask _what the bloody hell was going on. _"Hey!" He shouted sharply. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the _best _way to get someone's attention.

The boy shrieked and fell from the couch in a pile of flailing limbs; his beret flew a spectacular distance from his head, landing nearly across the room. The girl jumped 5 meters and scrambled to her feet, her purple eyes huge with surprise, spigot thrust into the space between them, as though trying to ward off some evil creature.

If England had been in a better mood, he would've laughed out loud. As it was, he simply stared at them and waited for them to get themselves under control. The black-haired boy was…unfortunately vocal as he rose from the ground and collected his hat. "Jesus _Christ _old man, make a little noise when you walk! I swear to God, pops, I nearly jumped out of my skin…"

"I guess you should just pay more attention."

England slowly closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, his knuckles whitening around the mug handles. That didn't sound like the Russian girl from earlier, and he was pretty certain the black-haired boy didn't have a voice like that either. _Please, _please _not another one…_

He turned to look at the doorway of the guest bedroom—and swore softly. _There's another one. _

This girl was dressed in something that reminded him quite a bit of America in the 1700's; she wore a long, brown dress with an embroidered white apron on top. Her brown hair had been gathered into a tight bun on the back of her head, and her green eyes shone out from beneath startlingly large eyebrows. And England was _certain _he recognized the smirk she was wearing, had seen it…where?

It didn't matter where. Hell, she could've come from hell itself and _he. Wouldn't. Care. _

The mug handles broke in his hand, and the two drinks fell to the floor in a mess of black coffee and tea. He didn't care that the three teenagers jumped and turned to stare at him with identical, wide-eyed looks; all he cared about was the fact that things only seemed to be getting worse, _not at all better. _

"_What the hell is going on!" _He shouted, even as liquid began to soak into his socks. _"_This house is locked up 24/7! The only connection I see is America, but he's sleeping in the other room and as such has _no way _to bring any of you inside!" They were all blinking at him now, and it was at that moment England realized that they were most certainly related; there was no way their actions could be so synchronized otherwise, but the fact was barely registered through his anger, and, just a little bit, fear. "Now someone, right now, _tell me what is going on!" _

All three blinked at him, like some synchronized swimming move, and then the boy and the Russian girl turned to look at each other; he jerked his head at the girl in the long dress (who was watching the exchange with a dry expression on her face), and the blonde girl shrugged. England watched them incredulously, still heaving from his outburst, and just tried to keep up as best he could.

The two teens looked over at the girl in the brown dress, eyes wide and pleading; she held their gaze with a serious, unyielding expression on her pretty face—before throwing her hands up in the air, stepping away from the guest room and saying, "All right, all _right! _Both of you, wait inside the guest room, and _don't come out till I call you_!"

She shouted the last words at their retreating backs; the boy took one second to turn around and say "Thanks Penny!", before slamming the door behind him and leaving her to deal with England.

The silence was dead, and the tension in the air might as well have been an elephant in the room. For a moment the two people sized each other up; the girl with a rigid, straight back, intelligent green eyes staring him down, and England, still burning with fury, the tea and coffee on the ground seeping into his socks.

"Right." The girl—"Penny"—clapped her hands together, and just like that the tension shattered. "Why don't we get this mess here cleaned up?"

For a second he furrowed his eyebrows, uncomprehending—before realizing that she was talking about the shattered mugs on the ground. Tentatively he looked down and lifted one foot, watching his socks drip sullenly, before glancing up at her and nodding. "That would be wise." He responded mildly.

Several minutes later, the two of them were seated back on the couch, two newly made cups of tea on the short table in front of them. The glass had been swept up, and the drinks mopped up with surprising efficiency; England wouldn't have been surprised if this girl was the one who usually cleaned up after the other two.

"So…" England lifted his mug into his hands, warming his fingers on the ceramic, gesturing her with his eyes to speak.

Penny sipped on her drink primly, and then pursed her lips in thought. "It's…a long story."

He rolled his eyes, took a long draught of his tea, and said in his best patented 'dripping with sarcasm' voice—he _really _was gripping at dregs, trying to hold onto some version of sanity. "I'm sure I'll manage."

Penny winced, sighed (England really felt no sympathy), and set the mug down on a coaster on the table. She breathed deeply once or twice, to compose herself (oddly reminiscent of his own actions early), and then spoke. "How much do you remember about us?"

He stared blankly. "Us?"

"Me," She waved her hand in the direction of the guest bedroom. "New York—he was the teen you saw earlier…Rhode…Virginia? Ringing any bells?"

England's jaw loosened again as he stared at her, eyebrows coming together in a single confused caterpillar line. But those were—America's states! He'd never seen them before in his life! And that was probably why he said, rather intelligently, "What?"

Penny—or, if he was correct, Pennsylvania—pressed her lips together, staring at him in a new light, as though she had never seen him before in her life. "…right." She sat back, and dragged one hand through the hair on the top of her head, loosening some strands from her bun (in England's opinion, it looked tight enough to give the girl a headache). "Okay. So you don't remember us at all. This will be…" She grimaced. "Difficult."

"What will be?" He asked, tired of not understanding, and beginning to get supremely irritated—even more than he already was. "I'm here, I'm ready to listen. So _talk._"

Penny looked away, letting out a long, low breath from her nose. Her posture didn't change from its ramrod straight position, but her outward calm was betrayed by the way her fingers feathered on the side of mug nervously. "Well, I guess…it began when the nations from Europe came and started forming colonies. It still shows. New York has Netherland's eyes, and his hair style." (England's eyes widened as the puzzle pieces fit together; that was why they all looked so familiar!) "There were thirteen of us, at the start."

But wait. This was making less sense than before. "But—America was the country formed. You all should've have existed." He pressed one hand to his mouth, trying to sort through his confusion and failing miserably. "Even if you did because of your colony status, you should've been absorbed into America after the war!"

"You expect us to know?" Penny glared, her tone harsh; England recoiled slightly, surprised by the intensity in her voice; it seemed as though he had accidentally found a sore spot. "We're not great thinkers, nor will we ever be."

Slightly subdued, England nodded at her to continue.

"After the Revolutionary War, we all went out celebrating. Every single one of us got drunk off our asses. We didn't expect…" She sighed and slumped ever so slightly, waving off England when he shifted slightly, wondering if she needed anything. "We woke up next morning in America's head."

And all rational thought ground to a halt.

"What." He said, staring at Pennsylvania. "I'm sorry—_what?" _

That was just about when the guest room door finally broke under the weight of many, many nosy kids; there was a thunderous crash, and many muted thumps as they all rolled on top of each other, sprawling out across the floor.

England really hadn't completely understood what the implication of there being states meant; however, now that he thought about it, it should have been obvious. _Fifty states. _He thought faintly. _Fifty American kids mucking up my house. _

New York lifted his head from the top of the squirming pile, and adjusted his hat with a wide, sheepish smile. "Oops."

**So remember how I said that updates will be sporadic at best?**

**It's winter break right now, and I decided, 'What the hell why not post something else'. Yay for winter break! **

**Oh, just a small disclaimer: SOME OF THESE STEREOTYPES ARE NOT ACTUALLY REAL STEREOTYPES. For instance, a stereotype of Alaska isn't that everyone is Russian; it's just that Alaska was originally Russia's colony, so she inherited some of his traits. Sometimes I WILL be basing a states' personality on their past rulers. **

**Oh, and thanks to Guest for reviewing! Don't worry, your confusion won't last long. :)**

**IceEckos12**


End file.
